Thursday, April 3, 2014

top of the world

The sky is bright and the day is blue and warm. Sunlight stirs the skins of things, and the bees just hang from from every bloom. The dry throat of the earth, the dominance of dust, all parleyed past thought by every sense. black wings and evergreens, pine sap and blue feathers, everything finding its level in the end. All the cigar butts and glutted ashtrays, all the unearthed stones and the broken bricks speak to my shallow disarray. My heart sings just as deep and open as any grave.

The gray days ease in between storms and thirsty stones. Lightning spills down and thunder splits the air, storms that rode the restless ocean walking across field and hill. Green fills each bough and lot, an elucidation of insects and spiders seems to flow from the bewitched soil. The clouds brace the sky, making bets and promises as they veil the face of the shining sun. We ease between want and illness, between rhythm and appetite. We slow before every obstacle, we speed down every slippery slope. The path of rout and rapine somehow fleshed out in every feeble faith. The sky wanders, the earth wanders, while we think the world wants our pleadings.


There is rain waiting in the forecast, there are shadows sticking to every skin. My story is all love and squander, it is the wide wander from the distant primal seas unto these days of empty and of ache. The words well with typical tears, the litany goes dribbling down my beard, slobber slick and aged gray. All this blood and fury hobbling in shabby circles, boots caked with mud, books heavy with dust. I speak aloud the expected spells, love and hunger, death and wealth. The bent bones of this beaten man so keen to give up every ghost.  The shuffling gait of this stumble bum bearing the brunt of my daily blasphemies. This supplication spent for the weather when heaven is only stars and storms.

Monday, March 10, 2014

vernacular

We ride the tide of this ocean without sea or shore. We feel the brush of creation flying by, the throat only opened by the song, this press of breathless prayer unbound towards eternity. The scratch of the nub, the liquid shift of captured ink, until the click of fingers, unto this conspiracy of restless thumbs. The echo bears some slight enchantment of the life which it just so recently fled, the blush of that first reach, the ruffled feathers of this natal tongue. The choicest portions, the richest sops deluged at once by ancient appetites, the story all heady glut and starveling thoughts. The flocks that leave from sagging lines into ineffable flight, their shadows drawn dark and reluctant to the sky. The least intent a thousand fitful ripples.

The sun falls with its usual disregard, shadows slink and winds pace the rails. The sunlight climbing up the trees, the damp earth sodden with dusk. The lilt of song, the screech of tires and breeched traction light and silt through the senses vast transactions. That hint of a smile you always hear in her voice, that brightness of heart that her thought on eyes conveys, the depths of digression the flood of memories over these random skins. All the broken teeth and blown kisses buried far from the desert of my wind-worn ribs, the trails of secreted roots and lively flowers. Her own bones and breath the gorgeous foundry for this life renewed. All the wounds that can be carried, I will carry some more. The only oath that exists there in every breath.


I am a space between phrases. I am the trip of the tongue, not even a breath left to lose. The strange enchantment of dull technology leaving me to unwind in these long hallways behind your mind. Some cartoon haunted house complete with shifting wall and spinning bookcase, your mind a mystery machine to these slivers retained. Adrift in these rough constellations, the condensation of each sense to a few lithe strokes, the loosing of a resting ghost sealing your lungs and lips. You are there amid the masses, you reach and beckon entangled in my drift. You are here with-in the reach of speaking. You are here, with-in these shambled breathings, the cast of my blood on every shed word. Love as letters, a flag filled with wind.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

bell-mare

Don't ask who cast this shadow, don't tell me what the sun should want. The reach of limb, the sweep of the sky. The weeping wounds that closed so long ago. This flesh infested with dreams and memories, the heavens surrendered to silhouette swallows and drowsy crows. The world fled its flesh and forever haunted ours, its songs resonating in our foolish throats, its will the folding of our slippery tongues. The trees sway and the rain descends to the brutal earth. The light goes, along with everything i ever thought was mine.

There is a ringing in every inference, slow circles walked in the cold and dark. Branches scratch at the windows and the storm holds court in the dizzying depths of the midnight sky. Somewhere there are voices, caught up in the lively wind. Somewhere there are reasons lighting inhuman eyes. The heart skips and scrapes with each percussive gasp, the walls ache and sigh with the weight of the falling wind. The old ways pace the earth while we speak aloud to our hopeful myths, always howling for some intercessor. These faiths of dull extinction coiling on our nervous tongues, these prayers that stick to teeth and ceilings. Belief a world burdened by words while the night keeps its own counsel.


The world turns, spilling rain and shadow. The world turns, its clockwork of boiling stone and hushed vapor ticking away amid these dead-eyed stars. I pace the floor, I trace the path the rain removed. These words seep through, the spells and invocations of the beaten heart and the bruised bones falling beneath my feet. The wild wings and the spent breath of beasts wasted on the confusion of thing and thought. The old ways and bitter warnings treated like fairy stories while we bow and scrape to the fables that endure. Our lives a foregone conclusion, everyone knowing how it is bound to end. The lucid chemistry of living enough to fill that broken cup, the self the meat on the map of knotted proteins and native grace. The wolf awaits, its skin the restless appetite and the focused wish. When the wolf is at the door, I don't break my stride. When the wolf is at the door I don't hesitate to let it in.

Monday, February 3, 2014

these cold mornings

These cold mornings I awake forgetting that time is fleeting, then I reach for you. This glimmer of distance the dawdling of the clock on the wall, the mumble of gears turning away. The sense of the press of your hips against mine as dark dreams rouse me. The sense of your warm shadow lingering long after your flesh has left. Sleep dashed along with dreams as I am fitted back into my life. The ashes lingering forever in the fire where they formed.

I feel you like the coal so close to my palm, I taste you like the greasy reach of each sacrificial pyre. You oblige my mind like ritual, engage me like the fixed-teeth of the bike it's like riding. All these words wet sweepings of each enduring ache, all my days just the longing to say your name. This chance enchantment the whole wheel of the world, your hushed perfume still clinging to my pillow, your essence forever mingling with my breath. I know you as wish and whim, the wonder of you such an exhalation, a spell made real by speaking. I reach for you through these fiddled drizzles, shapes bent with tongue and shock to nuzzle with your every fervid moment yet to be. Memories made with the tips of tongues and fingers. History told to blood and bone.


It is this restless incandescence you rile from inside my mind that burns through my every night wide awake and so alone. The wander of your eyes from dusk to dreaming, the impact of your smile so like spending breath. I gasp and reach and grasp. My heart goes wild with want and fury. The way you warm and blush beside m touch. The way  you claim my every sense. This distance always set against us. This closeness always calling us home.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

resend

The wind is always waking up, the light is always ailing. Letters that I sent myself in need of misspelling. Something about the way the ache unravels the moment, something about how the song leaves your lips insists. I scrape my hand, I scuff the dust. I reach into the dark and the distance, my touch somehow always missing you the most. The magic of this least resistance, the echoes of every familiar phrase glistening on your flesh. The world is always undone by your habit of absence. The stage another open door.

We speak in tropes and rituals, we breathe in oblivions. The moment left and the moment started, the serpent devouring its tail. The fleet words of our assembled demons, the lost spark caught and given skin. We whisper into the stagnant space beyond the sky, worms withering on the pavement trying not to think about the boot. We loose our ghosts upon every flesh not haunted by our flesh, each turn and tumble anon skinned with-in our minds and set into the ether. The words once loose too late.


These are the customary measures and scribbles, the condensations that equivocate our consciousness, the knot of the symbolic binding us to the lurking world. The sunlight casts its shapes and tendrils, the gaze of the ever hungry heart. We wave our whispered oaths before us, seeing our breath as it thickens into gray fog and glistening beads. We witness our thoughts in the mirror, mistaking that reflection for that glimmer of sentience. I drop my feet along the path in the most need of trampling, I dance this fusillade of artful ache. The scratches that scathe the skins of matter with these suggestions of intent. I want you wrapped entirely inside my touch, these spelled wishes and limping incantations. The chill of footprints meeting the will of the rising wind.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

world of wonder

The idle fire of this winter sun has all but burned down, leaving a sky like sallow faith lingering on the skin. Plumes of dust and unsettled embers, trees fill with shadows, abiding this slithering sense of self. The name that fails to find a tongue, the face that stills, another portion of bone and flesh dancing in feel and fact. The frantic yapping of unhinged dogs ringing every  roof and door. Houses settle in the hinted warmth of hushed windows and electric light, the smell of smoke embedded in every moment alive. The sun glides beneath the horizon, this world of wonder loosed like doves.

The coffee clings to the steel of the cup, its bitter secrets swallowed like that old time religion, its heat a rumor best left to the digression of the senses. Dusk comes along with its typical bag of tricks, homebound birds and the glitter of distant prophecy. Stars parse the breadth of eternity, the sky flickering with the promise of every visible wish. My heart climbs up the steps of each breath and incantation, breathing in this tide of a life so far survived. Blood mingling with the atmosphere, everything connected and alone.

The hours trod on, step by step, breath and heartbeat. The slow fizz of subatomic indistinction, the turn of the wheel, the rise of the road. The umbrage of this existence sung in ache and pain, in lore and sign. The indistinction of soul and secret. The mystery so evident in all we cannot know. Sense and flesh always indistinct, any separation bequeathing only things and pieces. I speak in this slow elocution, the clumsy cadence of this peculiar incantation. The air around you aware of your every thought and glimmer, I'm there with you alone.

Saturday, January 18, 2014

across all creation

My feet braid the traces of everyday trails stepping through the braces of the back door. I scuffle through the plumes of dust, every sense so vivid, slipping on the setting sun. The day failing its saddle like a bent crusader falling into shadows on white sands. The night abrupt a stone in a slipper, adrift in these drizzled stars. All the habits of these stray constellations, the wander tracked all through the halls of this wanting heart.

We are vast and we are ageless, though just the shimmer upon the least stir of dust, the last exhalation of this ever shifting world. This abrupt insistence upon the skins of things, this strange hubris that supposed sentience confides. We are as temporary as the vibrations a voice casts into the crowded atmosphere, the measure of a moment all askew. In the dark I misstep and spill an ashtray, stumbling another turn of dirt, shifting the words to the end of another sentence. Curls of smoke knowing they will forever be remembered across all creation.


Say today and it seems like shaking hands with Mr Obvious. Say tomorrow and they treat it like fantasy. They change the names and juke the numbers, cast their silly spells of words and watches. As if the constraints of punctuation can hold back the endless tide. As if they could know enough to see the shift in the substance, the lay of the waves of light. The dreams that seethe through the dwindle and the dark. The tide of life granted from some depth of the cosmos shall never succumb to something as trifling as will. As if this dance upon the burning path is any less a god because the only thing agreed on is ending.